In which Gallows Humour is exploited
by BasiliskRules
Summary: Happy "Heaven Sent" anniversary! (Yes, it deserves one, so therefore, it *has* one. Deal with it). Wasn't that episode amazing? Yes, yes it was. But while fic can still be moving (I hope), everything can be made funny; nay, everything can be made *ridiculous* if you try hard enough. EVERYTHING. Observe, beautiful readers.


**I own every single piece of fiction that has ever existed. All shall love me and despair.**

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oOo

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He drops to the floor, and everything is dark and very, very painful.

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4 hours later. Middle of the weird, glistening, narrow corridor thing. Pain.

 _Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh Gods, dear Fates, sweet Universe, anyone who's listening, Clara, Clara, Clara, I'm doing this again, why am I doing this again, I don't want to do this again, I can't do this again–_

 _._

9 hours later. Stairs. Agony.

 _That stupid mountain, and that stupid Emperor, and that idiot shepherd's boy, and that bloody stupid bird–_

 _._

13 hours later. Top of the stairs. Nausea and burning. Don't forget the burning.

 _Legs. You move them back and forth to create motion, in order to propel yourself towards the indented destination. See, in theory everything sounds_ _ **so**_ _easy. Maybe… Ouch. Walking is for losers. Okay, perhaps later._

 _._

16 hours later. Random wide corridor. Vision severely impaired.

 _Why am I counting? No, seriously. I'll make it in time. I always make it in time. No more counting. I'm no longer being chased. Which is a good thing, because, will you look at this magnificent Time Lord, I'm giving the Weeping Angels a run for their money when it comes to speed right now._

 _._

18 hours later. Still random wide corridor. Cognitive processes failing.

 _Nope. Hands, dragging motion, feet, pushing motion, everything in between kind of helps, forward; and repeat. Simple enough. So, staying in the TARDIS. Mood lighting, familiar relaxing environment, less bleeding on the floor like a half-barbecued chicken. So sexy right now. Yeah, baby. So much for the eyebrows. Oh, joy, this place will start shutting down too…_

 _._

20 hours later. Getting really bored with the random wide corridor. Dizziness. Kidneys failing.

 _Walking! People, we have graduated to walking! Well, more like a paraplegic fish alien's idea of walking, but still. Hindlimbs supporting weight –very badly and with help from the upper limbs and the wall– that's it, we're there!_

 _._

22 hours later. Narrow corridor with windows. Severe balance problems.

 _…Narrowness, windows, yes, good, thank you: good handholds for both hands, which means more support, which makes kind of walking considerably easier._ _ **Easy**_ _being_ _ **very**_ _relative here. Morphine, morphine, my kingdom for some morphine. Ha, fooled you, I don't have a kingdom._

 _._

25 hours later. Narrow corridor with windows. Dehydration, pain management issues.

 _By the way, why was I talking to myself? No, Clara, this is serious; I_ _ **did**_ _definitely talk to myself quite a lot too. Not good, even with the loneliness. Aaahhh!...Aaah, ouch… It's like_ 127 hours; o _nly instead of my arm, I'm losing my sanity. And my life. And my patience, which was not that great in the first place. Yes, watched that film with Amy and Rory. No, I didn't look away…Okay, yes, I did, but only at the bone part._

 _._

28 hours later. Door's just around the corner. Curve. Whatever. High fever, dyspnea.

 _Oh. Oh, no. Help. This is where the hallucinations start. Granted, logical, to be expected… but no. Please no. Clara, I can't deal with dancing Cybermen right now. Or the sodding dinosaurs with the top hats; and they never give me a ride either. Please, please, please. Damn you, brain. Oh, who am I kidding, what will I get this time?_

 _._

30 hours later. Getting there. Pain. Mostly back to crawling.

 _What. The. Hell._

 _._

 _._

He's kneeling by the wall, staining it with blood and miserably clutching it with what could be generously described as a hand, when _he_ appears.

At that moment he has a violent coughing fit and he doubles over, struggling to breathe. He looks up slowly afterwards, daring to hope the man won't be there anymore, and he's sorely disappointed.

"My goodness. You know, I'd normally describe this as a radiant example of outstanding courage in the face of absurd adversity; but I think under the present circumstances, that would appear oddly self-serving".

He's standing there all velvet and flowing capes and ruffled shirt and huge bow tie, radiating suaveness and dandy-ness, and the one on the floor almost expects a kitsch sign reading " _Three_ 's the lucky number!" or "Edwardian James Bond of Science to the Rescue!" to appear.

 _This is the part where one usually goes "Angels and Ministers of Grace, defend us!" or something like that. But really, you're the least of my problems right now, and I think it shows._

"Oh good grief, look at you. What can I say… Well, at least it's not radiation".

"Oh, that's very comforting". His voice is a hoarse, unrecognisable whisper-growl and he really doesn't want to think what his throat and lungs look like at the moment. "Yeah, it's not radiation; it's _worse_. What– what are you doing here?"

"…Sympathizing?"

"You're not _real_ , you know", he gasps out, his grip on the stone slips and he falls forward. The other's there in an instant, steadying him easily and letting out a small chuckle.

"My good man, you're in no condition to proclaim the reality or unreality of _anything_ right now. I will be the judge of that".

 _Don't patronise me, I'm a thousand years older than you. And I have a better fashion sense. Alright, not at the moment, you do look better, but that's hardly a compliment._

That proves too much to say though, so he just settles for thinking it very aggressively in his general direction, as he waves him off with a cry and sits down. He can afford to rest for two minutes, and he really, really wants to.

(Of course, that has the inherent disadvantage of Mr. Fancy Pants leaning his quite impressive height on the wall, and looking down at him in a concerned manner.)

"Well, thank you for your sympathy…"

"Manners Maketh Man. And shared suffering makes Time Lords. Oh, that's good, I should write that down."

"…but–"

"To be honest, though, there _were_ a couple of other things". Serious expression.

"Ah". He tries to get up, fails, sits back down with a groan. The other leans in close.

"Those… sonic sunglasses. Can't say I approve, you know. They make you look like an idiot".

 _Are you kidding me._

"I'm a big fan of John Carpenter's _They Live_ ", he manages to rasp out, but it's barely audible.

"I mean, no offence intended, I'm me, you're you, but it's practically tradition. For all of us! And _I perfected_ the sonic screwdriver! I can't help but feel a little bit insulted".

 _Don't you worry; they're in my coat pocket. I pull that lever, they get so ruthlessly destroyed, you'd never be able to guess they were glasses once._ _ **Hundreds of billions of times**_ _too._

"So sorry to disappoint you". This time, Fancy Pants catches the irony, and he gets a glare™ and an exasperated, melodramatic sigh for his troubles. He succeeds in getting up on one knee.

"Never mind _. Nobody_ ever listens to me. I mean… _celery!_ Good grief!" He shudders. "Oh, which reminds me..." Serious look again.

 _If this makes me go "Are you kidding me?" again, so help me, you'll get a kick._

"Were those question mark underpants?"

 _You are only getting away with this pain-free because I'm horribly_ _ **dying**_ _._

He inches forward, slumps back down with a pained noise, and closes his eyes in resignation. "Clara. Help."

"You have to admit, that first go with you running around like that was just embarrassing. Thank God you thought to steal those curtains at least".

 _Yeah, and I almost put the Veil out of business by tripping and breaking my own neck about five times. Hate togas, especially makeshift ones. How do you manage with that cape anyway? Doesn't it get caught on things? How did the UNIT personnel ever manage to put up with you/me, I'll never know._

"Was… freezing!" he manages through clenched teeth. "S-Survival and practicality are the–the priorities here!"

"Practicality? Is that what you're doing with that Azbantium wall?" the vision scoffs.

"I. _Will._ Break it." He manages another inch. "Got… a better idea?"

"Well, you _will_ break through _eventually_ , I suppose. But –last thing, I promise–", here the look is a barely concealed "I'm better than you" and now it's his turn to glare indignantly, "I can't say much for your method".

He stops and slumps against the stone, gasping. "What do you mean?"

"What kind of miserable… Is this how _you_ strike with force, when you want to break something? If I didn't know, I'd say you have no martial arts background whatsoever!"

 _Are you kidding me._

"There _has_ been a slight improvement, I'll give you that, but… no, no, this won't do. It's a disgrace, you can do better!"

 _What have I done to deserve this? Rhetorical question, Clara, please._

"I didn't spend 15 years learning Venusian Aikido –and in that _horrid_ climate– for… for _this!_ "

 _No, no, not reaching that damn teleport alive this time, can't do it._

"First of all: your stance." The gleam in the other's eyes is one he has learned to associate with mad scientists passionately describing their amazing creation (which unfortunately, is almost always immediately stolen by evil aliens, because that's his life). "It's the first lesson! Turn your body sidewise, and watch it with the footwork, it's a miracle you don't lose your balance…"

"I–"

"Secondly. Yes, I know it hurts, it's a wall, and I don't doubt your strength, but your _technique_ is non-existent. That is a neither a proper cross, nor an uppercut or a hook. Yes, a palm strike obviously won't do in this case, since the hand _will_ get injured anyway…"

 _Will you look at that excitement and professional curiosity. Look, you can break that wall by yourself if you want, it's all fine by me. I don't consider shattering my own knuckles repeatedly an enjoyable recreation, I'm not a masochist._

He leans his head back with a moan. Infinite patience. Think of Clara.

"…I _would_ use a knifehand strike, they're my favourites, and Martian Karate is criminally underrated. But I have to admit, that wall's completely vertical, there would have to be an angle for it to work. Oh, but do take off that ring of yours, old chap: You'll only be able to do clumsy hammerfists if your dominant hand gets tired… Kicks _are_ out of the question since you need to get all the way up here afterwards…"

 _If he suggests that I put the wall in a joint lock or use pressure points I_ _ **will**_ _throw myself out of that window. Shut up. Please._

"I… I just…" His breath is almost a death rattle at this point and he is ignored.

"Most importantly", he demonstrates, fluffy white hair and cape billowing majestically, ever the helpful mentor. "Left hand: Vertical, about six inches in front of the face at eye level. Protects the head while you strike. Right hand: beside the chin, or in a relaxed stance, the upper torso, the elbow tucked against the ribcage to protect the body." He pauses for breath. " _Your_ punch usually begins at a level below the chest in a horizontal motion, and your other arm is just flailing around aimlessly. You leave yourself completely vulnerable. _Keep them up_. This is self- _defence_ if you remember."

"Well… maybe, it's just me…" he groans, gathering his strength.

 _Deep breath._

"…BUT I DON'T THINK THAT THE BLOODY _WALL_ IS GOING TO **_FUCKING STRIKE BACK_** NOW, IS IT?! YOU BIG-NOSE _TWIT!_ "

.

A shocked silence follows, his hollow, laboured breathing the only sound.

"Yes, well… that's true, I suppose", the other one says finally, scratching his chin.

He grunts, grabs blindly at the wall and drags himself up, sweat running down his face.

 _Well that was a genius idea, basically screaming at nothing. I wonder if I'm going to literally cough my lungs out. Certainly feels like it. Great, one heart down. Oh God_ –

"I mean, about the wall, your method, etcetera, not me being a twit. And there's no need to _shout_ ", he continues, all wounded authority and reproach. There's a pause. "Besides… After all, if _I_ am, then so are _you,_ Doctor", he adds, and smiles mischievously.

 _It's mostly the eyebrows with me, not the nose._

"I don't usually tolerate such outbursts and insults, but given your present condition…" He extends a hand magnanimously. "Here".

 _Look who's all noble. If this isn't "helping yourself" made flesh, I just don't know what is. Oooh, could you do a fireman's carry? Shame. I'd build you a freaking monument when I got the Tardis back._

"You do have a foul temper, though".

"You ramble… worse than my last regeneration".

A chuckle. "Fair enough. Door's that way, you're quite close". A few limping steps and indeed, he can see it, just out of the corner of his eye. But he turns back to him, swaying on the spot slightly.

"I'm afraid I'll have to reiterate that you're not real".

"Ah, now." He offers a fairly substantial shoulder for the dying one to lean on for the last few steps. "We are both quite the magicians, Doctor. How do you _define_ real?"

He tries and fails to laugh.

 _I 'm in severe pain, cross, bleeding, and having hallucinations and/or a very impressive near-death experience before I do this all over again; therefore, I am. Wow; that's depressing by Schopenhauer standards._

The other one lets go. He steps through the doorway and collapses on a piece of machinery right in front of the teleport. Not long now. He doesn't have to imagine falling to the ground, the cogs turning, writing in the dust with his last ounce of strength; he has lived it.

"Well, I'll be going now…"

 _Oh, do please stick around, next Me's face will be a sight to behold. You want a skull? I just drop them in the ocean and freak the hell out of myself later. I really hope they wash away, or I'll jump and break a leg eventually. Too macabre? Come on, stick it in your lab. Donate it to science. Play a practical joke on the Brigadier. Have it on your desk for spontaneous "Alas, poor Yorick" monologues. So many alternatives._

The power cables are lying in the dust and he slowly bends down to pick them up. You'd think repetition would make this easier, not worse.

"Ah, Doctor! One last thing".

The other one is a blur. Disappearing, or is _his_ vision already so far gone?

"The creature that pursues you… Not sure, but I'd say its nature appears to be mechanical. Have you considered reversing the polarity?"

This time he manages to bark out a strangled laugh and the effort makes his entire frame shake. He almost drops the cables, but he nods. "Once… or twice… Didn't work".

"Oh, shame". A sigh. "Well now, it doesn't matter. No harm in trying, is there?"

He shrugs –which makes him grimace in pain– and attaches the cables to his temples.

 _I'm not doing much else in this stupid castle, am I? The Doctor: also known as "The Oncoming Storm", "Time's Champion", and "The Anti-Yoda"._

He leans on the console and takes hold of the lever with a bloodied, charred hand. He's trembling slightly and he can't pretend it's not from fear.

 _(A superpower. Faster, cleverer, stronger. And doing what you have to do anyway.)_

The blurry figure in the doorway seems to raise an arm in farewell, and he'd swear he can make out a smile.

"Good luck, Doctor." In the next instant, he suddenly stops being there. While he's still speaking, the man seems to dissolve into the dim light that's shining through.

"And remember: While there's life, there's…"

He holds his breath and brings the lever down.

 _"…hope."_

 _._

 _._

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 **I have no idea where this came from. Or what to classify it as. Genres are for the weak. Enjoy.  
**

 **Happy _Heaven Sent_ anniversary!**


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